Dick Francis - Under Orders

‘How many races did Huw fix?’ I asked.

‘Only a few,’ she said. ‘Maybe eight or ten, all in the north.’

A little greed had been his undoing.

‘He had wanted out after only two,’ said Juliet.

A very little greed, indeed.

‘Then Huw said he would tell Peter’s father what we were doing if we didn’t stop, or at least stop involving him. Peter went mad and threatened to kill him. I didn’t think he meant it, but…’ She stopped.

‘Peter shot Huw at Cheltenham,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I didn’t know anything about it at the time, I swear, but Peter told me afterwards that it was during the Gold Cup when everyone was watching the race either live or on the big screens near the paddock. He said no one noticed him and Huw going off for a chat.’

And some shooting practice, I thought.

‘And I suppose the crowd noise at the end of the race would have drowned out the noise of the shots,’ I said, ‘but it was still a hell of a chance.’ Perhaps he’d used a silencer, I thought.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but Peter was desperate. He’s terrified that his father would find out about the race fixing and go and change his will just before he drops off the perch.’

‘Is he likely to drop off the perch?’ I asked.

‘He’s got cancer,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know? It’s prostate cancer and he’s had some treatment but it isn’t working. Peter doesn’t think he’ll last much longer, a year maybe, and he’s shitting himself in case the old man cuts him off without a bean for fiddling with his horses.’

So it was about money, after all. It usually was.

‘And how about Bill?’ I said.

‘Peter started a rumour some time ago that Bill Burton was involved in race fixing.’

‘Why?’ I asked her.

‘He said that it would keep the heat away from us if anyone started asking too many questions.’

Seemed to me to be like waving a red flag, bringing needless attention.

‘Peter was so excited when Bill got arrested,’ she said. ‘He reckoned that the only thing better than getting away with something was to have someone else convicted for it.’

Peter Enstone wasn’t the nicest of people.

‘He was annoyed when the police released Bill. He said that it meant that they didn’t really think he’d done it.’

‘But why did Peter kill Bill?’ I asked. ‘He’d done nothing to deserve that.’

‘He wanted to get the police to think that Bill had killed himself after killing Huw. So they would stop looking for Huw’s murderer.’ She looked at me. ‘And it would have worked, too, if you hadn’t stuck your damn nose in.’

‘Did you see him do it?’ I asked her.

‘No, absolutely not,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t know that he was going to kill him. I’m not a murderer.’

I still wasn’t sure about that.

‘So what happened that night?’ I asked her.

‘Peter rang me to say that he had to talk to Bill urgently,’ she said, ‘about his father’s horses going to another trainer.’

‘But the horses had already gone to Andrew Woodward,’ I said.

‘I know, but Peter told me that he was going to help Bill get them back.’

I wasn’t sure I believed her.

‘So what happened?’ I asked again.

‘I tried to get Bill on the phone but he’d gone out,’ she said.

To see Kate, I thought, at Daphne Rogers’ place.

‘Peter picked me up from home,’ she continued, ‘and we spent ages in the driveway waiting for Bill to come back, which he finally did at about half past ten.’

‘Then what did you do?’ I asked.

‘Bill was a bit surprised to see us, I can tell you. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?” That’s what he said. He was all smiling and joking. He asked us in for a drink so we went into the den. Bill poured himself a Scotch and Peter asked me to go and make him a coffee in the kitchen as he was driving.

To get her out of the way, I thought.

‘I was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil,’ she said, ‘and there was a loud bang and the next thing I know Peter comes out to the kitchen all frantic like and hyper. He said that would sort out the police. I asked him what he’d done.’

She began to breathe more quickly at the memory.

‘He didn’t reply,’ she went on. ‘He just stood there laughing and saying that that would show them. So I went into the den and saw Bill.’

Or what was left of him, I thought. She glanced up at the faint stain on the wall.

‘I couldn’t believe that he had killed him.’ She held her head in her hands. ‘I was bloody mad with Peter. I didn’t want Bill dead and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. It wasn’t my idea and I’m not taking the bloody blame for it.’

‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ I asked her.

‘I wanted to, I wanted to,’ she said. ‘I told Peter that I was going to call the police right there and then but he said the same thing would happen to me if I did. I thought he was joking but I didn’t do it. I was really frightened of him that night.’

With good reason, I thought. I also wondered if that was the first ounce of truth she had told for a while. I wasn’t at all sure that I believed her account of how Bill died.

‘Did Peter say how he managed to shoot Bill in the mouth?’ I asked.

‘Peter said that when he pulled out the gun Bill was absolutely terrified of him,’ she said. ‘He was pleased about that and he has talked about it over and over again since. Peter says Bill was scared shitless. Apparently Bill just sat there shaking with his mouth open, so Peter just shot him through it.’

‘So what happened next?’ I prompted.

‘I was in a complete panic but Peter was dead calm,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why but he kept saying he wanted to fire another shot so that it looked like Bill had killed himself but there had to be no second bullet found. He wanted to fire it out the window but I thought he might hit one of the horses in the stables.’

Her love of the horses was clearly deeper than her love for her boss.

‘I suggested firing it into one of the fire buckets,’ she went on, ‘so I went to get one from the yard.’ She looked up at me almost with pleading eyes. ‘I know I shouldn’t have done that. I am really sorry…’ She tailed off and began to cry. ‘I didn’t mean for Bill to get killed, I promise.’

Did I believe her? Did it matter? It was a jury who would ultimately decide if she were telling the truth or not.

‘So what did you do then?’ I asked.

‘Peter drove himself home and I just sat here in the kitchen all night,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking I should call the police but I was worried they would want to know why I had been at the house in the middle of the night, in order to find Bill, so I waited until it was the time I usually came to work in the mornings and then I phoned them.’

I remembered the shocked condition that Juliet had been in when I’d arrived at the house that morning. She had clearly been working herself up into that state for quite a while. I also remembered her saying, ‘How could he have done such a thing?’ At the time, I had thought she had meant Bill; now I knew she had been talking about Peter.

‘But why did you target Marina?’ I said.

‘Peter said it was no good attacking you to get you to stop. He said that you wouldn’t be put off by a bit of violence. I said that perhaps he should kill you.’

Thanks, I thought. For that I would not try too hard to keep her out of prison.

‘Why didn’t he?’ I said.

‘Peter said that would defeat the object. Then the police would know for sure that Bill’s death wasn’t suicide.’

Good old Peter.